


Tender is the Night

by prairiecrow



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: F/M, First Time, Flirting, Intoxication, M/M, Truth Serum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:01:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prairiecrow/pseuds/prairiecrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A glass of wine and a surprise encounter at a Starfleet-hosted masquerade ball lead Julian Bashir to re-evaluate certain aspects of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set a couple of months post-"The Search".

Looking back, Julian would realize that his troubles had started with the glass of wine he'd accepted from Jadzia Dax, who, sheathed in a stunning skin-tight scarlet dress and with her dark hair attractively uplifted in a way that revealed far too many of those tantalizing spots, could have probably talked him into doing just about anything.

It had been almost a year since his once-agonizing crush on her had slowly shifted gears into friendship, but… well, just  _look_  at her, her pale slender shoulders bared in the attractive half-light and her blue eyes gleaming mischievously from behind a white-and-gold volto mask as she turned away from the standing bar, holding a tall glass full of pale purple liquid that one of Quark's bartenders had just decanted out of a spiralling bottle mostly empty. A glass of the same beverage, half-finished, was perched on the gleaming surface next to her right elbow, a spot of serenity on the edge of a very large crowd of laughing, talking, gaily attired people of various species — primarily Bajorans, of course — all of them with their faces partially or entirely concealed behind an array of colorful masks.

She extended the drink to him with one of those smiles that implied both the wisdom of several lifetimes and the enthusiasm to live this one for all it was worth. "You have to try this, Julian," she coaxed over the driving beat of the background music: "It's Quark's last bottle and he says he doesn't know if he can get more. You'll like it, I promise."

Julian looked from her gaze to the extended glass and back again, unable to stop himself from smiling in response. Sadly enough, he found the offer of an interesting drink a real bright spot in what, so far, had been rather disappointing evening. 

An hour and a half ago he'd stepped out of a turbolift onto the second level of the Promenade and presented his invitation to join the exuberant masquerade party being hosted by Starfleet to celebrate the third Bajoran New Year since the Federation had arrived on DS9. The mall's lighting had been dimmed for the occasion, the usually flat neutral illumination replaced with exciting spots of hectic color, and Julian had slipped into the throng as easily as a slim blade, attired in an indigo suit of Garak's design with a cream linen shirt beneath, a columbina mask in turquoise and silver, his Starfleet communicator on his left breast and the lust for the chase beating eagerly in his heart. He'd groomed himself with extra care so as to present as dashing and alluring an aspect as possible even with half his face hidden — but for all the good it had done him so far he might as well have stayed in his own quarters. All his attempts to engage lovely young ladies in conversation had fallen totally flat. Even Odo, circulating among the party-goers with his usual dour expression and unflattering Bajoran security uniform, seemed to be getting more attention from the fairer sex than Julian Subatoi Bashir. 

Wandering through the crowd of Starfleet personnel, Bajoran dignitaries and other illustrious guests, he'd felt his optimistic mood sinking lower and lower on an accelerating downward curve as woman after woman was approached and woman after woman rebuffed him: some more politely than others, but by God, wasn't anyone here even willing to engage in a bit of witty banter? He'd been feeling rather glum by the time he'd spotted Jadzia standing at one of the portable bars Quark had set up on the second level and, sidling up next to her with relief at seeing a friendly face, had asked her what she was drinking — more to make conversation than anything else, but he'd been treated to the sight of her gaze brightening even more and the insistence that he simply had to try some Karellian wine himself. His protests that he wasn't much of a wine drinker had fallen on dear ears: when Jadzia got her teeth into an idea it took a lot to make her let go of it, and now here he was, reaching out to accept the offered glass and raising it to his lips and letting a sip of the liquid — both tart and sweet, with a strange subliminal heat — fill his mouth, linger on his tongue, and flow down his throat. 

Jadzia watched him with with a slight curve on her red lips, as inscutable as the Sphinx. "Well?" she prompted.

Julian took another mouthful. "It's very good," he responded when it had been swallowed, and in truth it was: it settled in his stomach with a pleasant glow, not unlike a hit of fresh ginger. Another sip, warm and delicious, and he asked: "What did you say this was called again?"

Jadzia responded with a string of syllables Julian couldn't even hope to pronounce — too many T's and Z's in the wrong places — and then picked up her own glass again. "It's from Karellia IV," she elaborated as Julian proceeded to drain half his glass: really, it was remarkably tasty stuff. "They distill it from a night-flowering tree that only comes into bloom once every twenty-seven years." Now there was a shimmer of amusement in her eyes. "This vintage is sixty-two years old, and it only gets more potent with age."

"About twice as old as I am," Julian remarked, setting down his glass on the bar with a  _click_  that seemed both too loud and as sharp as cut crystal. A moment later he wondered what the hell he'd just said  _that_  out loud for. Another moment later he said: "Oh dear, I didn't mean to say that, especially not to  _you_ , after all you already think I'm a child," and almost clapped a hand to his mouth in horror. "Oh God, Jadzia, I'm sorry!"

The Trill was suddenly studying him closely. "I think I'm the one who should be apologizing," she said, although in truth she didn't seem that sorry. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Fine," Julian announced — and he  _did_  feel fine, never better, full of energy and vitality, the heat of the wine expanding through his torso and limbs to tingle just beneath his skin. "Just fine," he repeated, but promptly went on to say: "If it weren't for this damned problem with my mouth." This time he did put the palm of his right hand over his lips, eyes widening, and even then a tiny blurt of sound emerged through his attempt to censor himself.

There was concern in Jadzia's eyes, but it was alloyed with something else, something both sly and affectionate. "I'm sorry, Julian, I should have warned you: some people react to —" That set of buzzes and clicks again. "— very strongly." She reached up and put her hand on his wrist, gently but firmly guiding his hand away from his mouth. "Do you still find me attractive?'

"Terribly," Julian heard himself answer, "but I'm not stupid enough to think I have a chance with you." And still the words flowed, inexorable and appalling and hopeful: "Don't you find  _me_  attractive? Even a little?"

Her smile widened, full of fondness. "That mask is very flattering," she said with painful kindness, and to his immense disappointment she removed her hand from his arm after a solicitous pat. "I think you should go home and lie down for a couple of hours. The effects of Karellian wine can be intense but they wear off fairly quickly."

"I'm fine." Julian had to make that perfectly clear. "But…" Oh, all the things he wanted to say, none of them wise and all of them sure to leave him in an agony of embarrassment, so instead he managed to redirect his train of thought with a tremendous effort: "… but — I have to go now." He flashed what he hoped was a brilliant smile and glanced away into the crowd, looking for something else to hold his attention, anything but this impossibly gorgeous creature in front of him, and saw no one he recognized. "Damn it — I'm  _sorry_ , Jadzia," and he meant it utterly even as he turned away and threw himself back into the throng of revellers, leaving half a glass of Karellian wine — and most of his heart — behind.


	2. Chapter 2

So many people. So much laughter, the flash of innumerable bright teeth beneath colorful embellishments and the ripple of gay voices. The pulse of the background music and the brilliant spots of light only added to the fire in Julian's blood. He set off down the Promenade without a clear destination in mind, trying to come to terms with what Jadzia's innocent offering had done to him.  _Go home,_  she'd advised, but surely he wasn't going to crawl back to his quarters and hide between the sheets — not without a willing partner to add comfort and pleasure to his empty rooms. Surely not! 

He'd come here with a young man's desire, clean and healthy and honest. What he felt now was deeper and darker, like blood drawn straight from the heart. The thrill of the wine was becoming an ache: he longed for the touch of a hand other than his own, for enticing glances and sweet smiles and melting kisses meant for him, only for him. He wanted to find a quiet dark corner away from the general whirl of celebration and look down into half-lidded eyes that beckoned him nearer. He wanted to fill his arms with a warm and willing body. He yearned to  _connect_  with someone.

And yet…

Julian had come to this party feeling that his mask was a prop adding an element of tempting mystery to his character, its cool shades heightening his desert darkness and enhancing the sculpted contours of his face. Now, as he made his way between the closely packed attendees with no idea where he was actually going, he was keenly aware of its new role as a welcome layer of interference between himself and the strangers that surrounded him. If he did connect with a woman here, what would the Karellian wine compel him to reveal? 

Would it matter, if he never intended to see her again?

The mask he wore hadn't been much of a shield between his inner truth and Jadzia Dax — or not enough of one, anyway. He could only pray that her discerning gaze hadn't seen too much, which was odd when he considered how earnestly he'd poured his heart and passion out to her when they'd first met. But now… well, now she was a friend, and there were things you could show to a potential sexual partner of a single night that were too revealing to expose to someone you worked with and truly respected — and loved in a way that went beyond how they made your body hunger for them in the darkness of a lonely night.

 _She was never mine. She'll_ never _be mine._  That was the truth and it made him want to tip back his head and howl with misery: evidently his romantic and sexual attraction to the Trill wasn't as dead and buried as he'd thought it was. To her he  _was_  a child, to be viewed with affection and amusement and perhaps a certain tenderness but certainly not with anything approaching the kind of desire he felt for her. To her he was too inexperienced to seriously consider for even a moment.

His thoughts ricocheted in a different but related direction:  _Just like Garak. After all this time, after all we've been through, even after that nasty business with the implant, he still smiles at me like I'm a six-year-old trying on grown-up clothes and playing at being a doctor._  The reflection was a bitter one and, he knew in the back of his mind, not entirely fair — Garak's overall level of respect for him had visibly increased since the incident where he'd saved the Cardassian's life — but the basic correlation between Jadzia and Garak was sound: they were both vastly more experienced than a certain Starfleet lieutenant who sought their company, they both tended to condescend to him, and yet Julian still kept coming back for more. Even though he knew that Jadzia would have nothing to do with him romantically, he still couldn't help but look at her with unrequited longing, and even though Garak was older and an inveterate liar and an agent of an enemy government, he couldn't seem to refrain from continuing to encourage the spy's friendship.

An image flashed into his mind, culled from his dreams since the Dominion simulation: Garak slumped against the wall in the darkened corridor of an illusory DS9, dying while Julian watched and was powerless to prevent it. The unexpected pain of it pierced him like a white-hot blade, as fresh as if he was seeing it for the first time, and hard on its heels came the nightmare aura that clung to all the memories of his time in that horrible false world. 

 _I'm a fool,_  he thought grimly.  _Always trying to win the respect of people who view me as less worldly and clever than they are. Well, I'll show them! I'll show them all!_

Childish, and without a clear plan attached beyond a somewhat drunken sense that he was capable of great things, but undeniably satisfying nonetheless.

Silent and brooding, singularly opened and yet feeling lonelier than he'd ever felt in his life, he made his way along the second level until he saw another familiar face seated at an island of tables Quark had set up by one of the tall oval viewports: Miles O'Brien, looking out in the direction of the wormhole with a pensive expression on his broad face and a glass of what was probably whisky loosely clasped in one hand. He was dressed in his best clothes — which were not terribly formal but flattered him in subtly coordinated earthtones — and a simple black domino mask. Julian had seldom been more grateful to see him. Miles was always a touchstone of stability and right now Julian's world was spinning far too fast for his taste.

The Chief didn't look round as Julian approached, and was still staring at the stars when Julian reached his table and, after a pause, loudly cleared his throat. Miles' scowled a little as he glanced up and around, and from the brief processing pause before a small smile bloomed on his neat mouth Julian discerned that he'd had quite a bit to drink himself. "Julian!" he said with a little too much cheerfulness. "How're you doing?"

"I've been better," Julian replied, barely managing not to wince at his own wine-induced directness. "Do you mind if I join you?"

Miles frowned up at him, clearly not expecting the answer he'd gotten, then caught himself and gestured at the chair at a ninety degree angle to his own. "Be my guest."

"Thank you." Julian sat, and had barely settled his bottom in the seat when a Ferengi waiter appeared beside him, looking obsequiously expectant. It wasn't someone Julian recognized: Quark had obviously brought in extra help from off-station to handle the party crowds.

"He'll have a whiskey," Miles said before Julian could open his mouth, and the Ferengi slipped away before Julian could tell him that he'd really rather not have anything. "My treat," the engineer said expansively, with a crooked smile that confirmed his inebriated state. "M' surprised you're still here. Didn't I see you chasing Lieutenant Chalmers 'bout twenty minutes ago?"

Julian's smile felt too wide for his narrow face. "Not very successfully, I'm afraid."

Miles harrumphed softly and glanced down into his own drink. "No taste, that's her problem," he opined, chasing it with a swallow of the amber liquid. 

"I couldn't agree more," Julian said with feeling, and it was true: a fine handsome fellow like himself… "A handsome fellow like me, alone on a night like this? It's practically criminal!"

The look Miles levelled at him this time was surprised for an instant, then broke down in an amused chuckling snort. "You tell 'em, Julian," he said, holding up his glass as if for a toast; Julian mimed clinking glasses and two seconds later the Ferengi waiter reappeared as if late for his cue, setting down a half-finger of whiskey in front of the Human and collecting a thin strip of latinum from Miles before pulling a vanishing act again. 

Sipping the whiskey — again, more to be polite than anything else — Julian pondered the expression hidden under his friend's rueful little smirk. "Is something bothering you?" he asked, then took a wild guess: "Another fight with Keiko?"

"Wha'?" Miles gave him a surprised glance, then another snort, this one dismissive. "Naw, nothin' like that. Just thinkin' about what's out there beyond the wormhole." He indicated the serene expanse of stars with a pensive nod of his rounded chin. "The bloody Dominion, bidin' their time, waitin' to strike. Seems like —"

A burst of loud laughter over the background music heralded the arrival of a small but raucous group who took seats one table over, and Miles, after sending a scowl in their direction, leaned closer to speak almost in Julian's ear: "Seems like ev'ry time we turn around it's somethin' else, don't it? First it's the Cardies, then the Bajorans, then our own bloody people with the Maquis — and now…" He shook his head grimly and finished all but a swallow of his whiskey. Julian kept him company with a couple of careful mouthfuls. "Keiko's nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin' chairs, and I can't say as I blame her. Who knows what those shapeshifting sons of bitches are capable of?"

"We already know the answer to that one. The simulation…" The aura of a nightmare, which had retreated in the face of Miles' gruff straightforwardness, came rushing back silent and cold as a midnight tide: a darkened station, allies jumping into bed with enemies, Jem'hadar around every corner… and again that image of Garak, dying in front of him. The unexpected sting of tears made him blink hard. "I can't." He hesitated, trying to find the words to capture what was lurking in the thicket of his soul even as it slipped through his fingers, and had to settle for: "I can't get it out of my mind."

Miles nodded sympathetically and tossed back the last of his drink. "Yeah," he projected over the surges of music and conversation and laughter, the whiskey on his breath wafting gently into Julian's face, "I can't let it go either."

Julian, who had cast down his gaze pensively, looked up, feeling hope flare in his chest. "You can't?"  _Good old dependable Miles!_  But before he could say as much the older man continued with a rueful shake of his head:

"Bastards got right into our heads, didn't they? Played with our memories and made us dance to their bloody tune, like we was… like..." He peered into his empty glass. "Slimy bastards," he repeated grimly. "You want another drink, Julian?"

"No." He put down his own glass, which still had a couple of mouthfuls in it, and put his hand flat on the table to steady himself as he rose from his chair. "No, thank you. I think I've had enough."

Miles looked up at him and shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said, and went back to staring glumly at the stars. To his sorrow, Julian discovered that leaving the pain of memory behind wasn't as simple as leaving the table: he set off into the crowd again, trying to shove the growing ache down deep enough that his eyes wouldn't well up with tears. He succeeded. Barely.

Step by step he edged his way through the warm press of bodies. The Promenade was a whirl of colour and light and chatter and smiles, backlit by a pulse of music that beat against Julian's wine-affected senses like the rhythm of a giant heart. Once more he made his way through the crowd with no clear sense of direction or purpose beyond a general (and probably futile) desire to find some pretty young woman and engage her in conversation (and more if he could manage it), but nobody seemed to want to meet his gaze and he'd been rebuffed enough already tonight that he wasn't in the mood to hazard another cold approach. A Ferengi server offered him a glass of wine from a tray but he waved the man off: Jadzia's little dose had proven quite enough for one evening, and he was rapidly becoming convinced that having a couple of swallows of whiskey on top of it had not been a good idea. He only hoped that his intoxication wasn't so obvious that it was humorous or pathetic. He thought not, but of course was he really in the best position to judge?

 _Go home,_  Jadzia had advised him, and he was mulling over that possibility for the seventh or eighth time when amidst all the chaos of strange curves and angles and colors, something caught his eye. Something distinctly familiar. He made his way toward it, toward a male figure standing at the railing overlooking the first level with one hand resting lightly upon the bar of bronze and the other cradling a glass of orange liquid, gazing down at the sea of people below. The man's body, only a couple of centimetres shorter than Julian's own in the neat sable leather boots he wore, was covered to the jawline by his black clothing, even his hands sheathed in thin ebony gloves — but the fall of raven hair was as familiar and unmistakable to the Doctor as the few centimetres of grey skin that flashed between his high collar and his mask, revealing twin ridges of scales running down from the half-hidden ear.

"Garak?" He couldn't believe it. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Garak turned on his highly polished heel, beamed at Julian without shame, then glanced at the glass in his hand and offered a winning smile. Julian had to admit that he found it pretty damned charming. "Good evening, Doctor! I'm enjoying a Tamarian Sunset and the whirl of general gaiety." He looked around with a smile of general benevolence before turning his attention back to the flustered young Human confronting him. "Isn't it a  _lovely_  party?"

"You're not supposed to be here." The second the words were out of his mouth he loathed his own uncouthness, but Garak's smile only turned indulgent. 

"I don't see why not. I produced an engraved invitation for the nice gentleman who was asking to see them at the turbolifts, and —" A gesture at his own face. "—I  _am_  wearing a mask, which if I'm not mistaken is  _de rigueur_  for this sort of affair."

Julian found himself staring. Garak's half-mask was a subtly gorgeous thing, the draconic scales and sweeping horns made of some iridescent material that seemed to capture all the colors of light and weave them into an exquisite tapestry of luminous threads, somehow making the fabric itself seem even more impenetrably black. In Julian's current state of inebriation it should have been quite enough to hold his attention, but Garak's suit — vaguely militaristic and crafted some brocade material that looked thick enough to insulate the cold-blooded skin beneath from the room's chill yet managed to fall in elegant lines — presented an even more compelling picture. Its silhouette emphasized the solid strength of Garak's body, the breadth and the power of him, in a way that his regular clothes somehow did not, and the way its neckline plunged to the hollow of his throat seemed breathtakingly daring in comparison to the way it concealed the rest of his twilight skin.

Julian's pulse was throbbing in his temples. He swallowed and said: "I — I'm sorry. That wasn't very —"

Another elegant wave of one gloved hand. "Think nothing of it." The Cardassian's glance turned keen above his carefully crafted armor. "And you, Doctor? Are you having a good time?"

Julian opened his mouth to permit another pleasantry to escape, but what emerged was: "No, not really."

"I see." Garak did not seem surprised. In the blackness of the mask his eyes, intensely blue and piercing, shone with their own cold light. Julian was seized with the sudden sensation of being opened with a pair of scalpels, delicately wielded but inexorable. The experience was not entirely unpleasant. "Perhaps a cold drink would help…?"

Julian laughed low in his throat. "I… think I've had quite enough of those already." He meant to stop there, but the words kept coming: "Jadzia gave me a glass of wine — Karellian, I think she called it — that's…" He couldn't say  _made me drunk_ , not to someone as  _worldly_  as Garak, it was too appallingly naive, so instead he finished: "…struck me a bit funny."

Garak smiled politely but said nothing, only gestured again with his hand in a way that invited Julian to continue through the crowd with him. They'd gone about three meters along the railing when Julian blurted out: "She said I should go home."

"Did she?" This time the smile was sly. "Well, Lieutenant Dax  _is_  both old and wise. Have you considered taking her advice?"

Julian couldn't help but return the smile in kind. Somehow the ground between them had shifted: he felt like a co-conspirator now, following the cunning Cardassian spy on his rounds, so he said: "No, not really. The evening's just getting started."

"Hm!" Garak said brightly. "That it is." Another glance around them at the chattering crowd and he leaned a little closer to Julian's shoulder, speaking softly in his ear: "I think that young lady over there is watching you."

He indicated direction with a tiny flick of his scaled chin and Julian followed it to see a tall Bajoran brunette in a purple off-the-shoulder gown and a little white mask that only covered the orbits of her eyes. She was indeed looking in their direction, and when she saw Julian gazing at her she smiled and glanced away at her female companion, laughing behind one hand.

Amused, Julian asked: "How do you know she's not looking at you?"

"Me?" Garak looked innocent, or as innocent as he could appear with most of his face hidden by black fabric. "What a ridiculous notion! I am but a candle in comparison to the sun."

Julian paused mid-stride, halting them both, and nudged Garak with his elbow. "I  _dare_  you to go over there and introduce yourself to her."

Garak slid him a sidelong glance that strongly suggested he was wondering if Julian had reverted to the age of seven. "A Cardassian male, approach a Bajoran woman under these conditions? Are you  _trying_  to start a riot?"

Julian grinned at him. "Oh, come on, Garak — don't tell me you're scared?"

"Only if you count self-preservation as a form of fright. Besides," and he took brief hold of the elbow that had poked him to get Julian moving again, "I'm a little old for those sort of antics, don't you think?"

"I wouldn't know," Julian countered. "You've never told me your age." And immediately winced at his own candour; Jadzia's wine was playing holy hell with the filter between his brain and his mouth. He glanced back at the Bajoran woman, who was watching him go with a little smile, but found that he wasn't really in the mood to approach her: earlier he'd been keen for the sexual chase, but now… well, Garak had a way of commanding his full attention. 

"And I never will," Garak responded with a gleam of delight, "if you go about it that way. Come now, Doctor! Haven't I managed to teach you at least some subtlety?"

"I'd like to think so." He should have been wounded by the implied criticism, but the way Garak was smiling took the sting out of it — or at least the sting of embarrassment. He felt inspired to try to live up to the pleasure he saw in Garak's eyes, presumably in response to his company. "Tell me, is it common in Cardassian society for an older man to take a younger protege under his wing?"

"Better," Garak conceded, "but hardly a recipe for getting the sort of information you're looking for. It presents too clear and too simple an option —  _Yes_  — while leaving your subject free to omit any further details. Try again, my dear."

Julian scanned the crowd without really seeing it, searching his intoxicated mind for another approach. Garak waited patiently, smiling like a wolf, until at last Julian looked directly at him and said: "At the table of the generations, where would you sit?"

Garak paused in walking and for a long moment they studied each other. " _Much_  better," he said, almost too softly to be heard through the chatter of the surrounding revellers. "If I cared to answer the question, it would tell you a great deal."

Julian offered what he hoped was his most charming smile. "Oh come on, Garak —"

The Cardassian held up a black-gloved hand. "Spare me your appeals: you already know the age of one of  _my_  mentors, and that should provide an essential clue to the answer you're seeking."

"You mean Enabran T—"

Garak stepped up to him and caught his elbow in a vicelike grip while flashing a smile toward anyone whose gaze might happen to be turned in their direction. "Keep your voice down, Doctor!" Then, in an even lower tone: "This is not the place to be speaking that name."

"Or yours?" He felt a flush of shame at his own indiscretion that blaming it on the wine did nothing to ease, but he also felt a surge of rebellion at being treated so high-handedly. 

"Or mine," Garak agreed. He released Julian's arm and stepped back to his former conversational distance, a departure that left Julian feeling strangely cold and even more alone. Suddenly he was tired of feeling like a child, tired of being the one looked down upon by those with more wisdom and experience, so he changed the playing field to one where he felt competent as a grown man: 

"Would you care to dance, my Cardassian friend?"


	3. Chapter 3

That actually made Garak blink and cock his head slightly. "Dance?" His tone was neutral, his gaze wary.

"Dance," Julian confirmed. He looked toward the open space beyond the railing and down one story, where couples were swaying together to a dimly audible slow tribal beat of more leisurely music. "That's a notable trait of Bajoran culture: in social situations like this men may dance with men, and women may dance with women, and nobody thinks anything of it." He took a step toward the stairwell leading down to the first level, turned, and held out his hand in a way that he hoped was both inviting and challenging. "Well?"

Garak's gaze never left his, and after a moment he smiled again. It did not quite reach his eyes. "Of course. I'd be delighted." With a bow of his chin he indicated that Julian should proceed him, and Julian complied that much, turning away to find a path through the press of bodies with Garak close on his tail. He found he was a little unsteady on the stairs but with care and a slightly slower than normal descent he was able to get to the bottom of the spiral without incident; at once point he felt Garak's hand lightly laid on his left shoulder and was both absurdly grateful for and absurdly annoyed by the subtle interference. From the base of the staircase it was only a few meters to the edge of the crowded dance floor. He stepped onto it, turned around to face Garak —

— and found himself momentarily at a loss. He'd never danced with another man before in his life: that wasn't something one did unless one was sexually or romantically interested in the fellow male in question, at least in his social stratum, and although Julian had felt mild same-sex attraction to a schoolmate when he was in his teens (an incident he'd long since categorized as youthful experimentation) he'd never been in a situation where this sort of activity was an option. While he hesitated Garak moved smoothly in, caught hold of Julian's right hand, and laid his own right hand on the small of the Human's slender back before it occurred to Julian to put his free hand on Garak's shoulder. "I. Ah. Sorry."

"It's quite all right." He fixed Julian with a gaze that seemed to calculate his precise state of inebriation: at such close range Julian could see every striation in his irises, facets of slate grey layered with threads of paler ivory and serpentine strands of startling blue. "Ready?" Julian nodded, feeling sheepish, and Garak led them both into the first gliding step of a sedate, restrained waltz that didn't overtax the Human's compromised sense of balance. Julian supposed that he should have felt annoyed — after all, he'd led Garak down here to get the upper hand and show off how suave and debonaire and commanding he could be, and now…

…well, Garak had taken control, because Julian was clearly intoxicated. When had Garak gotten rid of the Tamarian Sunset he'd been drinking? The thought of the spy slipping it into the hand of another partygoer in passing, so smoothly that the man had been left blinking at the glass he was suddenly holding, made Julian smile in spite of himself, the expression accompanied by a snort that was almost a giggle.

Appalled, he felt compelled to announce: "I'm not  _that_  drunk!"

"Of course you aren't," Garak assured him, keeping firm hold of his waist and moving slowly and smoothly.

"Just a little…" His train of thought trailed off into the awareness of exactly how his partner  _was_  moving, and the easy strength it implied, immediately followed by the observation: "You're very good at this." There was that filter — or rather, there it wasn't.

Garak responded with a slight inclination of his chin and a faint smile. "Why, thank you! I like to think that my education included all the basics for a successful social life."

It was difficult to let the Cardassian lead — Julian was used to being the one with his arm around the waist of a lithe young lady — but he concentrated on getting used to it, reminding himself to relax and let Garak take charge of where they were going. "Including waltzing in the Human style?"

"Can I tell you a secret?" Julian nodded, and Garak leaned briefly closer to whisper in his left ear: "I studied the forms especially for this party." When he drew back again his eyes were sparkling in the dimness. "It doesn't show, does it?"

"Oh, no!" Not that he could really tell in his current condition. "Not at all! You dance like you've been doing it for years."

Another bow of the chin. "You're too kind."

"Who were you planning to dance with?" He wanted to kick himself — hard — but Garak's smile only widened.

"I find that when one is properly prepared, all sorts of opportunities present themselves." Without warning he stepped into a sweeping turn, the sort that often ended in dipping one's partner, but spared Julian that travail and finished with a long sideways glide. "Not too much, I hope?"

"Uh… not really…" His left arm was fully around Garak's shoulders now and his head was still spinning in the direction of the turn. "But maybe you could warn me next time?"

Garak laughed out loud, and the thrill of it unexpectedly warmed Julian right down to his toes. "I'll keep that in mind." 

Knowing his friend's sense of sometimes cruel mischief Julian braced himself for another sudden disorienting change of direction, but Garak restrained himself, and after perhaps thirty seconds he began to relax again, enough to ask:

"What about Cardassians? And dancing?" It wasn't terribly coherent — perhaps the sudden turn had disordered his mind more than he'd realized, or at least tangled his tongue, but Garak seemed to understand what he was getting at.

"You'll have to be more specific than that. Cardassians of what historical era?"

"The present."  _Of_ your  _era, you infuriating lizard!_  he thought but managed not to say out loud by actually biting the tip of his tongue. Perhaps the effects of the wine were starting to wear off.

"Well." He shifted a little closer on the next step and lowered his voice to speak directly into Julian's left ear again. "In the modern era women may dance with women without attracting too much attention, but when two men dance together it's considered something noteworthy."

Suddenly Julian's pulse was pounding under the line of his jaw. It was mildly distracting. "Noteworthy?" he asked almost desperately. "In what way?"

Garak's voice fell even further, dropping in pitch to a sneaky murmur that was definitely sultry. "In much the same way as it is in your culture, I expect. It's not something that two friends would do, is it? Or a teacher and a student."

 _Oh God, caught!_  The thought was a bright spark of truth stricken from the dark metal of his own soul, and in its sudden illumination Julian became aware that people were definitely watching them. He tried to swallow his awkwardness before whispering into the ridged ear a couple of centimetres from his lips: "I, ah, well… not really…"

"I'm glad to see we're on the same page." His arm slid further around Julian's waist as he shifted the pace of their dancing down to little more than a slow rhythmic sway. Julian nearly stumbled at the change of tempo but Garak's embrace held him steady. "My," and his voice in the Human's ear was distinctly amused, a caressing movement of air warmer than the glove cradling Julian's hand or the grey cheek now almost touching Julian's brown one, "you  _have_  had quite a bit to drink, haven't you?"

Julian blushed. Surely it couldn't be seen in the darkness punctuated by flashes of colored light… but Cardassian vision was significantly better than Human under such conditions. "Only one glass, not even that much, really… Sorry, is it on my breath?"

"A little. But mostly," and he tightened his grip on Julian's waist again, pressing body length against body length, "you're unsteady on your feet."

"It's that damned Karellian wine," Julian babbled, trying to sound as calm as possible even though his heart rate and blood pressure had just taken a leap upward, along with certain other parts of his anatomy. "Playing holy hell with my —" Garak's hand shifted along his waist, sliding down a few centimetres to settle on his hip with thrilling pressure. "Uh. Um, Garak…?"

"Yes, Doctor?"

"Are you doing that… I mean, do you have any idea what you're…?"

"I always know what I'm doing." There was that ripple of laughter again, but this time it didn't feel like a thing separating them: no, this time it felt like innumerable coils tightening around him, a predatory embrace he had no desire to escape. "Surely you've learned  _that_  much about me by now."

"You smell amazing," he had to confess, because it was true. "Like cinnamon and leather and… what  _is_  that? Like some dark flower that only opens at night. Is that your hair?" He rested his cheek against Garak's, pressed the tip of his nose to the wave of ebony that flowed back from Garak's left temple, and drew a deep breath. "Yes — yes, I think it is. Mmm… heavenly… do all Cardassians smell like this?"

"I sincerely hope not!" Indignation now, or at least a well-phrased simulacrum of it . "Take Gul Dukat, for example, whom I suspect walks in a cloying odor of gunmetal, sexual musk and perpetually frustrated ambition."

"You don't know?"

Garak executed a small but dramatic shudder of his broad shoulders inside the brocade tunic. "I try to keep at least two meters' distance between us at all times… such things, however, do tend to carry."

"So you  _do_  know!" His triumph was exultant. "I knew it! You probably even know what he eats for breakfast every morning!"

This time he sounded startled and virtuous. "My dear Doctor, I have no idea what you —"

"Damn it, Garak!" He could feel the gulf opening between them again — youth and experience, verity and falsehood, helpless transparency versus infinitely layered and carefully crafted masks — and frustration and perversity combined to produce an urge that he immediately acted upon. He had the satisfaction of hearing Garak's breath catch sharply when he bit down on the lower ridge of scales that ran forward from Garak's ear along the line of his jaw. "Don't tell me you don't," he hissed against the leathery grey skin. "I know what you are. Tain  _told_  me what you are."

"And yet here  _you_  are," Garak countered at once, taking ever-so-slightly tighter hold of both Julian's hand and of his waist and drawing both a little closer. "If I were you, I'd do some serious thinking about how well your own sense of self-preservation is serving you."

Julian smiled fiercely, letting Garak feel the curve of his lips. "Here I am," he agreed, moving in as close as he possibly could. Let the spy feel the way his cock was lifting and thickening inside the pants a tailor's hands had so carefully shaped for his body: this was, after all, a night for truths, no matter how unexpected on both sides. Running his left hand back along Garak's left shoulder to the broad nape of his neck, he found the fall of sleek black hair as cold to his fingers as still water on a moonless autumn night: he could almost taste the tang of ice crystals forming on his skin. "The question," he murmured as he pressed himself brazenly against the sturdy figure that stood firm against his sensual assault, "is what do you intend to do about it?"


	4. Chapter 4

People were definitely staring now: they'd come to a complete stop near the edge of the dance floor, with Julian plastered against the shorter Cardassian and surely wearing an expression that could only be described as unrepentantly lusty. The force of his desire resembled a tsunami in key respects, including its unexpected impact and the sensation akin to drowning — the whole of the Promenade around them was reduced to an unimportant blur of colors and sounds, overwhelmed by the solidity of Garak's body and the scent of him and the sharply remembered taste of his skin and the blood-deep roar of Julian's own pulse. 

"You've been flirting with me," he breathed into Garak's ear, running his fingers up under the mane of hair and caressing the back of that strong masculine neck through the fabric that enclosed it. Weren't the ridges from shoulders to ears supposed to be erogenous zones? Damn him for wearing a collar so high that it covered them completely! The thought of peeling the thick brocade back to kiss and lick and bite them filled Julian with both lust and a finer, more spiritual longing:  _this_  was the connection he'd yearned for, and more, because physical desire was augmented by personal affinity. "Don't pretend you haven't. I'm not  _that_  oblivious."

"I never said anything of the kind." He sounded calm, but did his breathing betray a deeper then normal resonance? Perhaps, perhaps not, and through the thickness of his clothing Julian couldn't feel anything untoward happening at his groin… but in spite of the wine he was approaching full tumescence himself, the feeling of enclosure and entrapment making him want to reach down and free himself. Would  _that_  finally break through Garak's imperturbable facade? He should have been appalled at the impulse but all he felt was a dim prohibition that no, he mustn't, not here, barely strong enough to restrain him.

"You didn't have to." Another little bite on that tempting ridge; this time Garak didn't flinch, but neither was he pulling away. Here they were, under the gaze of innumerable pairs of eyes, some of them doubtlessly hostile, and he wasn't pulling away: he was standing his ground, letting Julian fondle him in public. "I wasn't sure I liked it because I don't fancy men, and you play so many damned games, but you  _do_ , don't you, you want to —"

As cleanly as the stroke of a blade between them Garak stepped back, reaching up to catch hold of Julian's left wrist and pull his caressing hand sharply away from the nape of his neck. 

"Games?" There was a lethal light in his eyes, burning in the baroque blackness of his mask. "And just what are  _you_  playing at, Doctor?" For a couple of seconds he held Julian immobile with the stunning force of that gaze; then he released the Human's right hand, which had remained resting in his left, and turned away, pulling his partner off the dance floor with iron fingers still wrapped around his left wrist. 

Julian half-stumbled after him, caught off balance by the sudden shift in both position and interpersonal dynamics. "Garak! What the hell are you —"

"Taking you back to your quarters where you can sleep this off," Garak snapped curtly back over his shoulder, "or better yet, finding a security officer to escort you —"

 _"Garak!"_  He'd already been dragged three meters through the press of bodies, which seemed to be miraculously parting in front of them; now he stopped dead in his tracks and dug in his heels, presenting Garak with the choice of stopping in turn or roughly jerking him forward. When the spy halted and turned a stern expression toward him he found himself sounding both angry and aggrieved: "I thought you'd, if I, I mean if we —"

"You did, did you?" The Cardassian's voice was quieter now, barely enough to carry over the music — the crowd around them had fallen strangely quiet — but it stabbed through Julian's intoxication like a dagger of black ice. "Typically, Doctor, you're not actually  _thinking_  at all."

"Now that's not fair," Julian protested, hating how much the comment wounded him, and the surge of misery that welled up in its wake. "You enjoy my company, I  _know_  you do, and you're alive, Garak, we're both  _alive_ , can't you see how I —"

"I can see that you're drunk out of your mind." His voice had lost some of its harshness, instead conveying a patronizing kindness that made Julian want to punch him in the nose. This time his tug on Julian's wrist was gentler and more persuasive. "Come with me. I'll take you home myself. There's no need to involve Security in this, is there?"

After a moment Julian hung his head, feeling utterly crushed: he'd put his foot in it again. "No," he said dully, and Garak released his wrist and stepped back to stand beside him, transferring his right hand to the small of Julian's back. They set off at a more sedate pace with Garak dictating their path through the crowd and Julian let himself be guided, close to tears for the second time in one evening. He'd be lucky if Garak ever wanted to speak to him again after this fiasco, and the emotional pain of the prospect rendered him temporarily mute.


	5. Chapter 5

Julian kept his attention focussed on his own gleaming black shoes: left, right, step by step, one after another, ticking off the final seconds of this thoroughly doomed night. He couldn't look up at the faces moving past, and certainly not at Garak, who he trusted to find a way for them both. The Cardassian kept his hand on Julian's lower back and was talking in a low soothing murmur — something about getting Julian some oral analgesics and a couple of glasses of water, and how he'd be much safer in his own bed than here among so many strangers — but Julian scarcely heard him. The last sentence he'd blurted out had shaken loose a repeated cascade of mental images: he was remembering the oppressive shadows of another place hauntingly similar to this one, a place that had never really existed.  _At least here you're alive,_  he thought in Garak's direction,  _even if you're furious with me and even if_ I'm _about to die of embarrassment, oh bloody hell why didn't I listen to Jadzia…?_  One small mercy: his overwhelming sense of shame seemed to have silenced his overactive tongue,  _Thank God!_  he reflected ruefully, because he'd dug himself quite deep enough for one —

Garak abruptly stopped in his tracks, catching hold of Julian's elbow — otherwise the Human would have kept right on walking. "Oh, dear," he said woefully, and Julian raised his head to find Garak looking intently at some point ahead and slightly to the left. "I'd hoped  _she_  wouldn't be here."

"She?" Julian tried to scan the moving tapestry of beautifully clad bodies but couldn't see anyone who stood out. "She who?"

"A certain Bajoran business owner who was very vocal in her displeasure when I shared my opinions about her wedding gown design." He was crowding against Julian's left side, urging him toward the outer curve of the Promenade. "If she sees us I'll surely be treated to another lecture concerning my numerous professional and personal failings. If I can just evade her notice for a few minutes —"

Now Julian saw where he was being herded: a pylon supporting the second level which had a multi-hued theatrical light mounted near its top, providing a promising slice of deep shadow on the other side. With a final glance in the direction of his annoyed customer Garak slid them both sideways into the thin column of darkness, and Julian ended up with his back pressed against the arcing strut and Garak facing him, stepping to within five centimetres of Julian's chest in order to be completely within the pylon's sheltering umbra. Julian had to admit that Garak, being dressed entirely in black and with a fall of ebony hair covering the back of his head, made for excellent camouflage under the circumstances: his own ivory shirt had a telltale sheen that would draw the eye even in darkness.

"There," Garak said with some satisfaction, risking a narrow glance back over his shoulder. "I don't think she noticed me."

"Was it really that bad?" Awful social blunders aside, Julian couldn't help but be curious.

Garak shook his head and shrugged in a way that suggested a bird of prey shedding unpleasant moisture from its feathers. "The woman was positively  _strident_  in her outrage. Honestly, I don't know what she expected, coming to a tailor with a dress design of her own devising! I'm sure she thought I'd be unable to contain my delight and ebullient praise, but… well, when I tell you that her plans included Vortian crystals  _and_  ruched ecru lace from Evero IV I'm sure you can imagine my justifiable horror."

"That's…" The whole Promenade seemed to have started spinning around them. Julian closed his eyes and willed it to stop; he must have started listing to his right, because he felt Garak's hand suddenly pressed to his waist on that side as if to steady him, followed by his other hand to correct a sway in the opposite direction. He found himself holding onto the Cardassian's upper arms, because the spy at least seemed immobile, and after a few long deep breaths the sensation of disorienting motion faded enough for him to open his eyes again. There was enough reflected light that he could see Garak studying his face intently, and he had to look away, unable to meet those piercing blue eyes.

"You're angry with me." He could hear how defeated he sounded and was grateful for the physiological fact that Human male eyes spilled tears less easily than Human female eyes. "I don't blame you. I — I'm sorry, Garak, I didn't… oh God, what an  _idiot_  I am!"

"An idiot?" His voice was soft, kindly, and when Julian risked another glance at his face he found Garak smiling at him. "Never. You only have a tendency to say whatever comes to mind, and that wine doesn't seem to be helping, does it?"

"God, no," Julian said fervently. 

Garak's hands were still at his waist, and now they gave him a little squeeze that was probably meant to be reassuring, but Julian's cock, which hadn't fully stood down in spite of his burning cheeks, was encouraged anew. "I forgive you, my dear. Who knows? Perhaps the notoriety will translate into an increase in business at the shop."

"People were watching." It was a horrified whisper. He reached up to take Garak's face in both hands and leaned forward to press masked forehead to masked forehead, a gesture of sympathetic emotional connection that came too directly from the heart to be questioned. "While I…"

"People were watching," Garak agreed. When Julian tightened his grip and tugged him forward he resisted with easy strength, but then Julian made a pleading little noise deep in his throat and angled his neck forward and tugged more urgently, and he allowed himself to be pulled in those last couple of centimetres, tilting his face slightly upwards. 

It certainly wasn't the most elegant or commanding kiss Julian had ever engaged in — or rather, Garak certainly managed to be both but he himself was eager and hungry and yes, rather sloppy — but it was heartfelt, and the response was very encouraging, and it lasted until Julian lost count of his own heartbeats. When they finally edged apart Julian was feeling dizzy for entirely different reasons, the sensation of spinning driven by his own pulse. Eyes half-closed, he heard Garak exhale a soft hiss: "Since you're not likely to remember any of this clearly in the morning, I must say that you're not making this at all easy."

Blink. Eyes more open. Frown. "Making what easy?"

It was a few seconds before Garak replied: "Maintaining propriety. But that, alas, is exactly what I must do."

"But you want this… don't you?" He let his head tip back against the pylon and licked his lips, gazing down at Garak through half-lowered eyelashes and savouring the subtle lingering taste of that cunning grey mouth. Was the citrus sweetness from the Tamarian Sunset? "You want me."

"My dear," Garak said patiently, "you're far too drunk to give anything approaching rational consent, and I have no desire to spend the next several years avoiding you because you've regretted issuing your very kind invitation. This station is simply too small to play that game." His hands slipped around Julian's back, one encircling his waist, the other sliding up between his shoulder blades, and then Garak was pressing another kiss to his mouth and it was far too brief, a teasing flicker of reptilian tongue against Julian's teeth and then gone, leaving him yearning after it. This time the curve of Garak's lips was both wicked and solicitous. "So, I'm going to take you back to your quarters and see you safely in the door, and no further."

When Julian could marshal words again — the pulse in his erection was terribly diverting — he protested: "That didn't really answer my question."

"Of course it did." God, that voice, smooth and innocent as cream with an underlying intoxicating burn of laughing insinuation. "You're just too inebriated to appreciate it." 

"Oh." He let his head fall back against the pylon again and closed his eyes, almost whimpering:  _"Oh!"_  Sensing Garak's cocked head, he grimaced faintly and let himself sound plaintive. "I'm getting very hard, and these pants are  _very_  tight."

"My poor Doctor! That must be exceedingly uncomfortable." His voice conveyed polite concern, but he moved even closer, making Julian squirm in a way that was far from protesting: it was perfectly delicious, being trapped between the metal of the pylon and the solid power of Garak's body, which was clear to be felt even through his thick clothing and the padding of subcutaneous fat . Another kiss against the bare side of his neck, sending his blood pressure soaring, then a silken whisper in his left ear: "You'll have to take care of it when you get back to your quarters."

Julian couldn't suppress a laugh that was half a growl. "You're an utter beast."

"Did Tain tell you that as well?"

"You told me that yourself." He was panting now, wrapping his arms around Garak's upper back and pulling him closer yet. "All those stories, circling around the —" A thrilling nip of sharp white teeth on his jawline made him moan, not caring who overheard. "— circling the truth… did you think I wouldn't figure it out?"

"What makes you think you have?" He drew away to look Julian in the face again, releasing him and stepping back to the edge of the pylon's shadow. Julian found his hands unwilling to release those broad shoulders, so primly covered, so avidly imagined. "Now, my dear, as enchanting as you are we really should be —"

A familiar voice — gravelly, authoritative — interrupted from the other side of the pylon. "Is there a problem, gentlemen?"


	6. Chapter 6

Julian's heart, which had been up and down several times already this disconcerting evening and was currently on a soaring trajectory —  _He wants me!_ Garak _wants_  me! — crashed in a fireball of shock and dread. "Oh  _God…_ "

"Constable!" Garak actually sounded delighted, turning a brilliant smile on the Changeling as Odo's tall stiff figure stepped into full view. "How nice to see you! I do hope you're having a pleasant evening?"

"I'm having an  _interesting_  evening," Odo corrected, his piercing eyes scanning back and forth between the two men now trapped between himself and the junction of the pylon and the wall. "I've received several reports of a Cardassian male assaulting a Human male — and vice versa — not twenty meters from here. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

Garak appeared scandalized. "Of course we don't — and frankly I'm insulted by the implication! Surely  _you_  wouldn't make the error of assuming that all Cardassians look alike?"

"No," Odo growled, "but you  _are_  the only Cardassian on board this station."

"That you know of," Garak countered. "Are you quite certain that no others have snuck aboard? I'd wager that word of this party reached Cardassia Prime in plenty of time for heavens-know-what disreputable characters to decide to put in an appearance."

Odo made a soft grinding sound in his simulated throat, studying Garak in a way that made it clear that the double entendre had not been missed. "All right. If you're not assaulting each other, then what  _are_  you doing?"

Garak slid a glance in Julian's direction. "I was escorting the good Doctor back to his quarters — as you can see, he's had a bit too much to drink — when I caught sight of Alsa Sirna and decided that I didn't want to encounter her, which we surely would have done if we'd continued toward the turbolift —"

"Alsa Sirna? She's been complaining for weeks about your critique of her wedding dress."

"Precisely, and I wanted to avoid a repeat performance. So we decided to 'lie low', so to speak, here in this handy little patch of shadow until she'd moved on."

"And that's all you were doing." Clearly Odo didn't believe it for a second.

Garak blinked at him and smiled. He looked like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Julian knew differently. "We were passing the time discussing the poetry of Kibon Tireka, if you must know. He writes haiku, which makes him the perfect subject when one only has a few minutes to spare."

Odo turned his unblinking slate-blue eyes on Julian, who bit the inside of his cheek and looked down, choking back the words that welled into his throat with what he hoped was not a visible effort. He was fairly sure he failed miserably.

"Now," Garak said briskly, glancing past Odo's shoulder, "if Ms. Alsa has moved on — and it looks like she has — perhaps we should be on our way." He took hold of Julian's left elbow and stepped out of the shadow, drawing the Human with him. "If you'll excuse us, Constable —"

"I'll walk you to the turbolift," Odo stated. After a moment Garak inclined his chin in a little nod, although Julian guessed he was far from pleased by this development, and Odo fell in on Julian's right side as they set off down the Promenade. 

Cardassian hearing was considerably less acute than that of Humans or DS9's Changeling, so when they'd gone a few steps Odo leaned over and spoke into Julian's ear in a low voice calculated not to carry to the tailor who, although he'd released Julian's arm, was still keeping close to his left side: "If he's threatened you in any way —"

"Threatened me?" Julian turned startled eyes on the Constable and barked nervous laughter. "God, no! He's just — he won't do what I want, totally typical, I practically had to beg just to get a kiss out of him —"

"A kiss." Odo's voice was perfectly flat.

"Oh dear. I shouldn't have told you that. I don't suppose you could forget I said anything?"

The sound Odo made could best be translated as "Hrmph!", but at least he turned his gaze forward and stopped parsing Julian with those laser-sharp eyes. Julian, however, was sure that forgetting was the last thing he would do, and could only pray that the Changeling would write his candid words off as drunken babbling with no basis in reality. If he didn't… oh God, if he didn't, and told Kira, and Kira told  _Sisko…_

That unhappy train of thought occupied him all the way to the turbolift. He bit his tongue again, literally, and managed to confine his verbalizations to soft little mutters that might have been curses if he'd given them full vent. Glancing at Garak, he found the Cardassian watching him sidelong and, given that he'd spoken considerably more loudly than a whisper when telling secrets to Odo, probably thinking very similar thoughts to his own. Ashamed, he looked away: those kisses he'd just enjoyed might well be the last he'd ever sample from this particular source, knowing Garak's aversion to scrutiny. 

When their little party reached the lift Odo turned to face them both again, this time addressing his words directly to Garak along with a stern stare. "Take him straight to his quarters, and I'll advise you to remember that Starfleet takes a very dim view of having its personnel abused. In  _any_  way."

"I'm sure it does." Garak's benign smile didn't do much to hide the warning quality of his gaze. The lift doors opened to disgorge a gaggle of masked partygoers, their chatter and laughter swirling around the tension between the Changeling and the Cardassian like carefree ocean foam breaking against jagged rocks. "Now, if you'll excuse us…"

Odo inclined his chin, and Garak followed Julian, who had not hesitated to practically leap into the open elevator as soon as the path was clear enough. Mercifully they were the small compartment's only occupants. Odo continued to glare at them both as the doors closed, and Julian slumped back against the wall as Garak directed the turbolift to the section of the habitat ring closest to his suite of rooms.

"Bloody hell!" Finally Julian could let the words pour out. He wiped cold sweat from his right cheek and tried not to lean into the sensation of spinning that was overcoming him once more. "Could this evening possibly get any worse?"


	7. Chapter 7

"Well," Garak said mildly, standing in the middle of the lift with his hands clasped behind his back and looking casually up at the ceiling, "that depends."

"Depends?" Julian scowled at the back of his head. "On what?"

"On whether or not you plan to vomit while we're stuck in here. Drunken people are rather fond of that particular trick, or so I'm told."

That prompted a shaky laugh. "No, I'm not nauseous, thank God — just…" He pressed his back to the turbolift wall and told himself that the elevator was  _not_  tumbling out of control. "It's just the alcohol causing the ampullary cupula in my semicircular canals to become lighter than the surrounding endolymph. Feels like the room is spinning. Very unpleasant."

Garak turned a politely enquiring gaze in his direction. "I thought you said you hadn't had that much to drink."

"I didn't. Karellian wine must be awfully powerful stuff… just one glass and… oh, come here, won't you?" He held out his hands appealingly.

Garak tilted his head. "Why?" he asked warily.

"Because my vestibular system's cocked up and you're as steady as a rock." Julian knew that his eyes were one of his best features, and now he made them as wide and as pleading as possible. "You don't want me to fall over, do you?"

"I also don't want to be found in your arms, or vice versa, if someone else decides to join us." An impatient sigh. "Stop looking at me like that. It won't do you any good, and you look quite stable to me."

"Not even if I promise you another kiss?"

" _Especially_  not if you promise me another kiss. I suggest you look at the floor or something else that's not moving and — oh, my dear Doctor, what's the matter now?"

Julian was indeed looking at the floor, but his eyes were squeezed closed against the sting of tears. He hadn't felt like crying this many times in one day since — but no, he mustn't think of Palis, he was miserable enough as it was. "I'm an idiot, and I can't keep my mouth shut, and you're never going to kiss me again…"

"I've already dealt with the first point, you're absolutely right, and that also depends."

"You're not," Julian groaned, suddenly too tired to make any effort to hide his dismay. His fists clenched and trembled against the cold, subtly humming wall. "And it was so  _good_ , too, and I didn't know I wanted it until tonight. When you died in the simulation I couldn't bear it, and you have no idea how overjoyed I was when I realized that you weren't dead after all and that I adored you and now I was going to see you again and discuss literature with you and see you smile and hear you laugh… and I still didn't know. I  _am_  an idiot, and now I've ballsed everything up by being the clumsy kid you all think I am. I wish I could crawl into an access shaft and  _die_!"

Garak waited three beats before asking: "Are you quite finished?"

"For now." He couldn't seem to take a deep breath, as hard as he tried.

Another short span of seconds passed in uncomfortable silence before Garak spoke again, very softly and as if to himself: "You. Adore  _me_." His tone was so bitter that Julian looked up at once, startled, to find the ebony dragon mask framing a pair of brilliant blue eyes whose gaze was intent but unreadable. Before he could do more than open his mouth to say God only knew what, the turbolift came to a stop and the doors opened, and Garak's manner and voice turned friendly and brisk again: "Come along, Doctor, let's get you home."

Exhausted and inebriated as he was feeling, Julian wasn't too surprised when his first attempt to push himself away from the wall failed. He didn't have time to try again before Garak was at his side, sliding his left arm arm around his waist and half-lifting him with that damnable easy strength that set his lust to bubbling again in spite of his emotional anguish. The Cardassian kept the supportive arm in place as they exited the lift and set off down the hallway, and Julian leaned against him gratefully. "Thanks awfully… I swear, my legs usually work much better than this… but I guess I should be thankful they're not, because it's got your arm around me again… why do you always put on clothes that hide how strong you really are? I s'pose you have to… wouldn't want people to suspect… y'want to make people think you're so soft and non-threatening… although now  _I_  know differently, but I won't tell anyone, I swear…"

"I doubt you'll remember any of this come morning," Garak interjected wryly. 

Julian nodded solemnly. "Prob'ly not. But I'll be dreaming about those kisses forever."

Garak sighed again, with the air of one who suffers fools not terribly gladly. "I'm sure you will. Ah, here we are…" 

They reached the door of Julian's quarters, and for a madcap second Julian considered demanding that Garak open it using his own personal code, which any spy worth his salt should certainly know by now, but instead he steadied himself by putting his right arm around Garak's middle and entered the code himself. When the door whispered open they entered the dimly lit living room together, and without a word Garak guided him through to the bedroom and sat him down on the edge of his bed and gently but firmly removed his columbina mask, setting it down on the bedside table before going down on one knee in front of him and proceeding to unfasten his right shoe.

"Oh." Julian looked down at the spy for a moment, enjoying the gleam of his hair and of the mask he wore, then let himself fall backwards onto the bed, throwing one forearm across his eyes. "The whole room's spinning."

"I don't doubt it."

"Not as bad as it was on the Promenade, though." He licked his lips and squirmed a little. "Your hands. You have the most  _amazingly_  talented hands."

"I'm glad you think so." Bland and professional, just like his touch, as he slipped the right shoe off and moved on to the left. "Hold still, there's a good boy."

"I'm not a  _boy!_ " He let himself sound fully as irritated as he felt. "I'm a  _man_ , as I'd plainly show you if you'd just —"

"What you are is drunk, and clearly in need of a good night's rest." The left shoe came off, and Garak set it neatly beside its mate before rising to his feet. "Sit up, my dear." 

Julian glanced at him from under his forearm. He knew he looked petulant, and didn't much care. "Only if I get a kiss."

"That's a small price to pay to save that jacket from being slept in." He took Julian's outstretched hand to help him get vertical again, then leaned in and delivered what he'd promised, lightly and briefly but with a caressing glide of his lips that made Julian break out in a sweat all over again. Once the jacket had been removed and neatly folded and set aside he said, "Now you wait here while I get you some water."

Julian stared after him as he headed toward the replicator, wondering if there'd ever come a time when Garak himself would not prove to be an intoxicant, providing a sense of reality that shifted from moment to moment. When Garak returned with two glasses of clear liquid he obediently drank one down, noting the slight chemical taste and judging that it must contain vitamins and electrolytes, while Garak placed the other within easy reach on the bedside table, next to Julian's mask. When Julian had finished he took the empty glass from him and started to take it away, but Julian stopped him by catching hold of his free hand. "No! Stay."

"I'm just going to return this to the replicator." His gloved fingers squeezed Julian's briefly before pulling away. He was back within seconds, this time to take hold of Julian's shoulders and guide him to lie down fully on the bed. "There… on your side, if you please. Just like that. And now I really must be —"

"Garak." Now that he was lying down his whole body seemed to be sinking into the mattress, toward deep dark sleep, but he struggled to stay awake. "You  _do_  want me, don't you?"

After a moment Garak bent to lay his gloved right hand, cool and steady, to Julian's left cheek. "I've been alone a very long time. And you're far too intoxicated to be making such an offer."

"Dammit, Garak, I'm not  _that_  drunk!"

"Really?" He removed his hand. "Touch your nose with your index finger."

He tried, and failed. "Bloody hell…"

"I rest my case." He straightened his back and inclined his head, looking down at the Human with what Julian hoped was fondness. "And now, so should you."

"Wait." Reaching out, fumbling really, he found Garak's right hand again. "Listen to me, Garak. Really listen.  _You don't have to be lonely._ " He took the gloved hand in both of his own and brought it to his chest, interlacing their fingers and cradling it over his heart. "Life's too short to be lonely… I learned that the hard way… and we're both here. So maybe that's all right."

Garak said nothing, although Julian was sure he heard the slightest subliminal sigh. He didn't pull his hand away, and Julian let himself sink swiftly into all-encompassing darkness, feeling connected in a way that, while incomplete, was nonetheless strangely fulfilling.

*****************************

He woke to shadows, clearer-headed and uncertain of the time, and found himself alone again. Garak had taken his leave. But in reaching for the glass of water so considerately provided for him he also found a baroque dragon's mask, black as a starless night yet infused with a million intricate threads of color, gazing at him mutely from beside his bed.

He drank deeply and slept again, smiling, satisfied with the company he was keeping.

THE END


End file.
